Psyche
by BiblioMatsuri
Summary: Once there was a man who wanted to make a real live boy from bits and pieces. He tried and tried and failed, so he decided to try something new. He made a special doll child from bits and pieces, and gave it a soul. Spirits Rise verse, prequel to CHI. Rated for death, insanity and general evilness.
1. Distraction

Disclaimer: I don't own DP.

BGM: "Meadows of Heaven" by Nightwish.

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Distraction

My home is not a restful place. It's noisy, chaotic, and all-around scary. If I'm not tripping over wires or slipping on spills, I'm hiding from my relatives. Uncle John is okay, but he only visits once or twice a year. The Matron is strict, but that's her purpose. Lessa teases and taunts, but she's too obsessed with appearances to do anything that might leave marks. Lon is fun to hang out with, as long as I can avoid taking the blame for his failures. Cameron is a snob, but he's a straightforward snob. If he wanted to hurt me, he'd say so.

The only one who really loves me is my (missing limb) twin, Delilah. She's the only person I've met who really knows how to be kind, because it was never something she had to learn. She laughs at the silliest things, like when she sneezes from all the dandelion fluff floating around, and she cries every time we watch Shiloh. She has brown hair, like mine, waist-length straight brown hair she spends half an hour brushing every morning. I always tell her to cut it short like mine, and she always throws her brush at me. Then I end up running through the house with an insane automated brush attacking my face. If Lon laughs, I punch him. If Lessa laughs, I pretend I can't hear.

We both have pale skin (but not as pale as hers) and small hands and sun-browned skin. I freckle, she tans. Then she winds up rubbing burn ointment on me when I stay out too long and forget to wear sunscreen. I pretend not to see Delilah sticking her tongue out at me. No one else would help me without expecting something in return, and I'd rather suffer silently than owe them even more.

We both chew our nails when we feel nervous, but I'm left-handed, so we wind up looking even more like reflections of each other, one hand each with nails bitten down. She started wearing nail polish a few months ago to try to break the habit, but no luck so far. We both like to draw, but I stylized sketches of whatever subject we're studying in class while Delilah's drawings are photo-accurate.

We both have green eyes. Mine are almost hazel, olive green. Hers are light, leaf green like the first day of spring. I have a hyperactive imagination where Delilah is literal-minded and set in her ways. Delilah is the most stubborn, strong-willed human being I have ever known, even more so than that woman.

Delilah thinks our mother's cooking is wonderful. It's all I can do not to gag. Delilah can't cook, either, although I can make a decent omelet. We both like working in the greenhouses with Karen. My favorite flowers are mignonettes that look like weeds and smell sweet, while her favorites are the vivid and oddly-named clusters of phlox.

Delilah always liked to go along with Father when he went to work. I worried, because I always do, so I made her pinky-promise to come back every time, no matter what. I knew she would always come back, so I was fine in my too-quiet room with the old stuffed toys I no longer play with and the million-and-one strange contraptions Delilah found, salvaged or put together over the years. I was never happy without her, but I knew better than to burden her with my worries. After all, she was with our father. What could be safer? (Nearly anything.)

"_Sheila, sweetie, I have some bad news_."

"_What? What is it? Is it Delilah?_"

It was.

"_It's okay, sis. Really. So, I lost a few body parts. Hey, maybe I can get an eye patch and we can play pirates! Captain Deli of the Sister's Revenge! No, wait, that makes me sound like lunch meat._"

She was loopy from the painkillers and who knew what else. Otherwise, even Delilah couldn't have made such a reckless promise.

"_Ah, Madam? Who is that in the hospital bed, there?_"

"_Oh, her? The deputy head's youngest daughter, I believe. I can never tell those two apart. Twins, you know._"

"_Deputy head?" he asked carelessly_.

"_Remy Faulkner, my boring little cousin. You met him_."

"_Ah, yes. Nervous little man, wasn't he?_"

"_Oh, yes, quite useless. It's just as well," she said with a little laugh_. (It sounded like springs unwinding and glass scraping on bones.)

"_Would you mind terribly if I took her off your hands?_"

He was a charming man.

"_Oh? Whatever for?_"

_He turned to her, eyes narrowed and voice drawn tight as a harp-string. "You care?_"

"_No. I just thought I'd ask_."

_He sighed _(like that could make him seem human)_. "How much?_"

"_I expect the project we discussed earlier to be fully funded and supplied for the next twelve years, Mr. Masters_."

"_Very well. So, Madam, do we have a deal?_"

He won. She won. We lost.

"_Sheila? Sister, don't cry. You know I'll come back_."

"_No, you won't," I screeched. "They never do, you know that! Once you're taken away, you'll never come back, and I'll be trapped here-" and then I stopped, because I shouldn't be afraid for myself, not when Delilah was about to be lost forever_.

She smiled.

"_Sheila." She took my hand. "I don't have a pinky finger on my right hand right now, so give me your left hand_."

I didn't bother telling her she already had it.

"_Let's promise again, okay? Now repeat after me: We will always come back, no matter what. We will be together again, because we're family, and that's what family is for_."

What family? You're the only one I could trust, no matter what. Isn't that what family is for?

"_I promise that you will never be alone, not while I've got anything to say about it. So don't cry, sister. I'll come back. I always do_."

She promised me, she promised. I'm still waiting.

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A/N: Yes, another new story. Prequel to CHI. One of the OCs in this chapter has been planned since the start of CHI - guess which one?


	2. Delirium

Disclaimer: I don't own DP.

BGM: "Eva" by Nightwish.

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Delirium

Sheila said it was a stupid thing to do, so of course I wanted to do it that much more. She always says that someday, my stubbornness is going to get me killed. Well, she doesn't actually say "killed," but I know what she means. But I was so bored…

Dad was working in the containment areas and I wasn't allowed to help, so I got up to look around. I wasn't supposed to be in the lab that day, or at all, but everyone gave up on keeping me out of wherever I wanted to go a long time ago. Suckers. No one else was in the lab. Well, except for Uncle John, but he's so depressed you could set off a firecracker in front of his nose and he wouldn't notice. Well, he might notice if those glasses got blown off his nose. Oh, that would be so funny.

After a few minutes of me poking around, Uncle John looked at his watch and got all frazzled, and that was a surprise because practically his only expression is a worried little frown. He got up and actually ran out the door. I figured maybe there was a surprise inspection, but all he ever did for those was clean his glasses and stand around looking like a kicked dog. That's business as usual for him. So then I thought it could be a visitor and got curious about whom it might be, because I've never seen Uncle John react about much of anything, except one time when Sheila and me were really little and he came home and got talked at for a few hours in Madam's office and came out all quiet like he always is.

I went to hide in one of the storage cupboards. I squinched up really small so I'd fit because I grown a lot in the last year, and even did my little trick to lock it after I got in. Then I held very, very still and waited. After a little while that my watch said was minutes and really was like an hour, I heard two sets of footsteps. That should have been my first clue. I mean, who else can walk around the inner compound unescorted?

That's right; it wasn't a visitor, but The Visitor, the V.I.P. of V.I.P.s, Madame Calla Anastasia Faulkner herself. She showed up in all her terrifying glory, honey-blonde hair cut straight and short, bangs framing a heart-shaped face with blood-red bow lips, skin like palest alabaster and eyes like black holes in the stuff of existence. Wow, I've been reading too many of Sheila's stories lately. Anyways, she's really pretty, but so crazy that the prettiness just makes her even scarier than she would be if she looked like the Wicked Witch of the West. She was wearing an embroidered lab coat, which I always thought was stupid, because lab coats are supposed to get dirty and stained so normal clothes don't. I'm not sure what else she was wearing, but I know it was swooshy and this burnt-orange color that matched her hair and make-up, and black boots with high heels like always. I know about those because I saw them way closer than I ever wanted to, but that was later.

There was one other person with her, an old geezer in a fancy black designer suit, really shiny shoes with sharp points, and a red necktie. He was built like a fighter; I've seen enough of them to know. Charming smile, well-groomed ponytail and voice like a professional spokesman – this old guy just screamed "dirty money," and a whole lot of it. Sheila probably would have told me not to jump to conclusions, but I knew he was bad news.

Unfortunately, I was right.

They started talking about something, and when they passed by close to me I leaned forward just a bit so I could press my ear against the inside of the cupboard door and hear a little better. I concentrated really hard, but all I could hear was something that sounded like "Master" and some crap about money, and then the cupboard fell over. I felt it tip, I knew it would happen, but I just froze up and knew it was happening.

Don't worry, though, that would never be enough to kill me.

When I woke up, I asked the Matron what happened. Well, first I coughed up a lot of blood and asked for water, but she wouldn't give me any. When Dad came in, he let me sneak a few sips from his little paper cup. When I could talk, I asked the Matron again, and this time she heard me. Then she gave me a long speech about blah-de-blah medical stuff, and I asked Dad what it all meant.

My internal organs are melting. How about that.

_Oh, shit_. I'm going to die. No, wait, maybe I can get someone to do a reconstruction, or maybe they'll put my brain in a jar. Okay, ick, I'd rather just die than let that happen. It's one thing to be a cripple, but it's another to be completely helpless. Promise that if I ever end up like that, you'll pull the life support. Ew-ew-ew-ew-ew.

Anyways, then the old man came in again – with Madame Faulkner. Yeah, so that wasn't a bad sign at all. Oh, G-d…

I'm not religious! I don't even care about stuff like that, but G-d, I promise that if I don't wind up pickled in a specimen jar or worse, I'll do good work and help the innocent for the rest of my existence! I'll even dress up like a superhero if I have to, and I don't care if it makes me look stupid.

I'm dying. I'm dying. I can see through my stomach, and my legs are melting, and my eye just fell out. Everything is white and chrome and green and red like some sick Christmas party from Hell, and I just want it to end, but it can't.

I'll never get to eat Mom's casserole surprise again. I'll never get to bug Dad in the lab and fetch beakers for him. I'll never prank Lessa or blame Lon, or listen to Uncle John's silly stories again. I won't get to pick out seeds for the next planting with Karen and Sheila. Oh, no, not Sheila. I can't leave her alone in that snake's nest, not her, please. Sheila isn't nice, she doesn't bother being polite, but she's sweet and innocent and she'll break all alone in that hellhole. Please don't let me die.

I have to go back to her, I have to go back, and I have to protect her. She doesn't know about all the lies they say behind her back, all the days I beat her home so I could get rid of the traps in her room, all the times I dumped her cafeteria food and made sure she ate Mom's cooking so she wouldn't have trackers in her system. She's my sister. She's the only innocent person in that maze, yes, even counting me. Please don't let me die.

I promised I'd get back to her, no matter what. I don't have time to wait around! I-

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A/N: Distraction from another POV. It's supposed to be confused - see title.

Because freak lab accidents don't really give anyone superpowers.


	3. Dementia

Disclaimer: I don't own DP.

BGM: "For the Heart I Once Had" by Nightwish.

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Dementia

It's bright. I don't know how I know that, but I know I know. I know that this is dark, and that is light, this is black and that is white. The white peels off and the black peels off, but the brown part is stuck. I try to get my nails underneath it, but now it feels bad and I have to stop. Now I know what pain is. I know two things now.

I look around, but all I see is more whiteness, and some green around the edges and the bottom. There isn't anything else to look at outside, so I try to look inside but my eyes don't go that way. Those funny squishy things in my face are called eyes, I wonder how they wor- Ow! Okay, no more poking my eyes.

Oh no, oh no. My eyes are leaking weird clear stuff, and eyes have clear stuff that's supposed to stay inside. I broke my eyes! Oh. No, wait, those are tears. Weird. What's the point of tears when there's nothing to wash away? And how can I cry when I don't have any glands or tear ducts?

Oh. OH. I'm not human. I'm a ghost. Or, okay, not a normal ghost – half-ghost? I'm a newborn, and I can tell that doesn't make sense. Ow, bright again, and hey, new things to look at!

"Hello? Can you understand me? Mind you, I wouldn't need to ask if you wretched experiments would just work right. Ah, well, I suppose it could have been worse. You're following my movements, which shows some level of awareness and intelligence, and you seem to be reacting to my voice."

This new thing is still talking. It looks nice – oh! He's an old man, or, um, older. Calling old people old is a bad thing. But how come it's a bad thing when they really are old? Old. Old means not new, like I am. I am new. I know this because I am an artificial person created by this other person. He downloaded information into my brain while I was developing so I would be at optimum functionality as soon as possible. This person brought me into the world, which makes him a parent. He is male, so the proper term of address would be-

"Hello, Father!"

How strange. I have Father now, but it still feels as though I have forgotten something. Oh!

"What's my name, Father?"

"Oh, that? Er. Well, you're female – pity that, but I couldn't risk the transplant being rejected, so you are Danielle now. Do you understand me? You are Danielle, and you exist to serve me. That is your purpose."

"Yes, Father. My name is Danielle, and I live only to serve you. That is my only joy."

Now he's giving me a look. "Close enough. Now go into your sleep cycle, it's late and I'm going to get bags under my eyes if I pull another all-nighter."

"Yes, Father."

I will do anything you say. (But I'm not going to promise.)

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A/N: Please read and review. Thank you.


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